


Paul

by bittenfeld



Category: David Bowie (Musician), Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unfinished bit.  Jareth is a wizard-prince, whose sensual beautiful pink-haired man-servant, Paul, shares his bed.  Yet what is the terrible secret that binds the two of them together?</p><p>(Disclaimer:  This has nothing to do with “Labyrinth” – I just have a heavy crush on Jareth, so I just use him in a completely different setting)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paul

**Author's Note:**

> I based Paul’s looks on the way David Bowie looked in the 1976 movie, “The Man Who Fell to Earth”.

Jareth was already lounging in the bath when Paul entered the room. “Ah, there you are,” the older man greeted. “I missed you.”

“I was in the dining hall, I wanted to finish setting the table for tonight.” Opening one cup­board door, the younger man took out a large plush towel and brought it over to the sunken tub for Jareth’s future use, then knelt by the gilt edge of the white-tiled pool and picked up the rough sponge to bathe his master.

Aura of gardenia scent permeated the room; permeated the room; Jareth liked it, it reminded Paul of his master, the scent always clung to Jareth’s skin, clothes, hair.

Reclining in the relaxing hot water, Jareth touched a light finger to Paul’s arm. “I want you to serve tonight. I’m having four guests, and I want you to be there.”

“Yes, my lord,” Paul responded simply. Then lathering up the gardenia soap, he rubbed the sponge over Jareth’s shoulder and back, massaging slowly, gently. A long sigh escaped Jareth’s throat, and his head tilted forward for Paul’s hands to work his neck and shoulders. Paul combed the long wet pale-blond hair to hang down in front of Jareth’s shoulders to get it off his back, then reached down into the water with both hands to rub all of Jareth’s back, down to his buttocks. The water was near scalding – just the way Jareth liked it; it reddened his skin hotly.

How many times had they gone through this bathing ritual, how many days in the nearly-thirteen years that Paul had lived with Jareth; it was Jareth’s daily pleasure – after deciding matters of state all day, and dealing with assorted lesser nobles who constantly demanded his attention – to relax in a hot bath, enjoying the peace of the elegant solarium and the lush greenery decorating the bath-house, and the gentle caresses of his young man-servant.  
* * * * *

A feeling of almost disorientation disturbed Paul, and he wandered out of the solarium, leav­ing Jareth to dress himself. The older man’s touches and kisses really bothered him, dear lord, what was happening?

For two weeks now, he had shared his master’s bed, for two long miserable weeks. Jareth was kind to him so far, he had not physically abused Paul, but Paul felt so bad giving himself to Jareth every night, every night, to his lord, to the man who had raised him for the past thirteen years.

To the man who had killed his parents.

Even now, dreams haunted him occasionally, dreams of a small boy hiding from the frighten­ing roar and thunder of battle; the stench of gunpowder, of burning flesh, though he was too young to put a name to it; he was hiding in the cabin at his parents’ orders, a five-year-old boy scared out of his wits, until suddenly he needed his parents desperately, so he ran outside crying for his mama and papa; and he stood on the edge of the battle, and he saw warriors on armored horses fighting his neighbors on foot, and guns fired and sabres flashed and clanged, and men and horses screamed and fell, and dust clouds whipped through the battle scene, and then he saw his parents sprawled on the ground some distance away, and he screamed and yelled for them, and wailed in terror, then started to run toward them, oblivious to the danger around him; whereupon he practically collided with a huge white horse galloping across the yard.

He fell back, crying now for himself as well, and found himself staring up at a fierce-looking mounted warrior who had pulled the horse to a halt and was looking down at the small terrified child; and the man’s long long pale blond hair swirled in the wind like a regal mane, like the pale tangled mane of the excited stallion, and his leather-and-steel battle-dress was stained with blood, and red discolored his sabre blade; and the child sobbed in absolute terror that this savage warrior meant to kill him this very minute, and the terror so paralyzed him that he just huddled there on the ground, his screams piercing the roar of battle around them.

But then, the warrior’s ferocious expression softened – if only slightly – and sheathing his sword, he swung out of the saddle and approached the young child.

And Paul still remembered so vividly the man’s hands reaching for him, and he couldn’t move a muscle to run away, and the soldier swept the child up onto his arms and remounted the anxi­ous snorting war-horse, then spurred it into a gallop away from the battle, and all Paul could do was hang on tight to the man, cheek pressed to the leathern breast-straps, eyes squeezed shut, tears streak­ing his face, bouncing with the pounding gallop, breathing in the tang of sweat and grime.

He never saw his parents or his village again.

And Jareth, the warrior-king with the long blond hair, raised the child partly like a son and partly like a slave, and trained Paul as a personal body-servant / secretary. And now, thirteen years later, Jareth was an aging forty-year-old warrior-king, and Paul a young man now – an adult male at last. And two weeks ago, his new-found adulthood had been celebrated in his master’s bed.

. . . . .

 _to be continued someday_ …

 


End file.
